Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Theanm Ankh Nov 2020
She says,
"You should know, dear
"The world doesn't stutter when it walks,
"Not the way you
"Stumble through your thoughts." And
I wish I could untie
The spool of my mind
But I
Keep feeding it thread,
Hoping it will spill out my mouth in
A rainbow scarf
Written in place of the 26-page history project due Monday
Allie Rocket May 2020
I’m unknotting myself
To knit myself new
Unpicking rows with too much tension
others that are too loose.
What else can I do
in this lockdown time
but search the lines for a new
pace and time
rhythm and rhyme.
To find a style of pearl and plain
And hope we can knit together again
Hear the needles click in an untick time
warming the heart
in a different way, awake to the day
What else can we do but
discover a pattern we can knit together
uncover our hearts to something new
and maybe true
Me and you
To get us through.
hannah Sep 2019
I started the scarf
That I'm making for you
I **** at knitting
So don't be surprised
If the whole thing unravels
In your gentle hands
Just like I did
When we first met
It's her favorite colour, and it's super soft, and it's absolutely ridiculously hard to knit (I refuse to accept the possibility that I just can't knit).
rebecca Oct 2018
It's a ball of tangled yarn that I just can't figure out
I need to untangle it before my time runs out.
What if my "what-if's" come true?
I can't sleep because the threads twist and constrict
I just don't know what to do.
AnnaWann Jul 2018
Picking up wool with your needles
A long straight line  turns into a sweater
The rule is that we move towards the unknown
Or away from it
Which one do you want it to be

Hatred rises from below
Reaching the maximum ability of vague comprehension
It starts and ends in the same moment
I think
I can imagine myself without a final point in this Cosmos
Knitting myself out of
the dimension I was destined for
is futile

All understanding: science,
merchandisable forms of expression,
art, philosophy
manipulates a piece of us but
I am left devastated
No amount of material will make a sweater thick enough
to keep out the universal cold
this cautious man (bobby jean) born in the u.s.a.
grownin’ up in the badlands of atlantic city
bonded with blood brothers
felt born to run along backstreets
in brilliant disguise that did cover me
frequently blinded by the light
of the full moon

casting silhouettes against darkness on the edge of town
which lunar shafts pierced candy’s room
while immersed in book of dreams
describing better days on a Cadillac ranch

where devils & dust - visible dancing in the dark
celebrating like calendar showered 4th of july
or other glory days in darlington county
even though I ain’t got you.

livin’ in the future
mine hungry heart hankered and felt like I’m on fire
for you, this fire in me craved human touch
desire - roaring into the ole factory fire because I wanna marry you
because the night populated with girls in their summer clothes

each dazzling like 57 channels (and nothin’ on)
in imagination of my american skin
descended from when adam raised a cain
before last to die forecasting kingdom of days
now dwelling in celestial mansion on the hill.

now rightfully claim status of I’m a rocker/
local hero and I’m goin’ down
meeting across the river
if I should fall behind
on the downbound train as living proof
within light of day magic jungleland

policed by highway patrolman i.e. johnny 99
alias johnny bye bye – held up without a gun
defending this lucky town established on Matamoras banks
from an incident on 57th street

thus celebrated as local hero every independence day
when with ****** incorporated firing point blank out in the street
that staccato new york city serenade from no surrender outlaw pete
originally from nebraska.

it’s hard to be a saint in the city open all night
within my hometown
once my father’s house, now my city of ruins
where tis moot to ask does this bus stop at 82nd street?

one step up
into the pink Cadillac
hops the ramrod queen of the supermarket
teasing audio dials sans radio nowhere
a red headed woman

racing in the street toward secret garden
to save my love – with thee angel rosalita (come out tonight)
offering reason to believe roll of the dice real world
and to prove it all night

from spare parts – shards of roulette wheel
housing souls of the departed
please save my love and stolen car
for sherry darling – that spirit in the night

she’s the one among souls of the departed
no longer stopped by state trooper
precinct based along streets of philadelphia
some crackling like streets of fire
straight time mandate for those armed to the teeth
along tenth avenue freeze-out.

requiem per terry’s song – what love can do
accompanied by e street shuffle
performed in somber tones
rumbling down thunder road
for souls of used cars
two hearts crushed

along this hard land
for: the ghost of tom joad
the last carnival homage to wild billy’s circus story
the price you pay when you’re alone
working on a dream
now wreck on the highway.

we take care of our own from youngstown
when heading of to the promised land
the rising distant mystical eden
where you can look (but you’d better not touch)
espying the river of salvation

joining eternally the ties that bind
a tunnel of love
or like the wrestler
pinning opponent tougher than the rest
like laborers working on the highway
chiseled like this hard land!
I would rather
be a
a belongerer
to no body
to no country
a loose end

than to bob
at every tug
of the yarn's
amasses me
a wriggled up
ball of

I would rather
be alone
scooped up
in a basket
with others
of my
and held in
by the
domed up
for containment

clicks and
of my
and chattering

frazzled bits
smoothing out
as my length
is tugged
up and up
like a long

I would rather
be loose
and scrappy
and stumpy
and ragged
the one that
nobody loves
the discarded
refuse of a
more discerning

than be made
into somebody

© 2017 Adelaide Heathfield
Sometimes it's better to be alone than to be in bad company. Sometimes it's better to be independent than to be dependent on the wrong thing.
Francie Lynch Jan 2018
I'll spin your yarn
With no embellishments
On the twilled roles you've spun;
I won't tink your knitted history.
I'll needle for pearls of wisdom,
And wear you as the fabric of my life.
You fit like a woolen hoodie.
"tink" knit backwards to unravel what's been knit.
Paul Butters Aug 2017
I get sent socks at Christmas,
So I can have safe walks.
When I tell my friends about this,
Everybody talks.

There is no innuendo,
Nothing to confess.
Without those cushioning blankets
My feet would be a mess.

I know a friend who knits socks,
In many different hues.
So long as she keeps knitting,
Our feet won’t have the blues.

So Wendy sock it to ‘em:
All that stitch and purl.
Make them good and roomy,
So our toes don’t have to curl.

No chance of any frostbite,
With these things on our feet.
For comfort on a cushion,
These socks just can’t be beat.

Paul Butters
Surprisingly there are many poems about socks on here. This is one for my friend Wendy, at her request (don't ask why).
Next page